Yesterday was Saturday. And soon enough, another one will come and then another one. An infinite amount of Saturdays to waste away. An innumerable amount of days to watch as life passes you by and you sit in the passenger seat of a vehicle called young adulthood, wondering were the driver is taking you.
You can only plan so far ahead, with the map of your future on your lap and the windshield exposing a vast stretch of land in front of you. You want to stop and smell the flowers that appear in a field at the intersection of first love and vulnerability, but that car, that damned car, keeps on moving. Speeding down the deserted highway without a care in the world. “Slow down,” you tell the driver. But there’s no one there to respond. Because you are both the driver and the passenger, with your conscious navigating the car and your heart along for the ride, staring at that map, wondering when it will all make sense. But it will never make sense, as long as your heart stays on the side looking out the window watching the blues,reds, and yellows of the earth blur together in a rainbow cistern of experiences.
With her logical mind, the driver always knows where she is going. That is what you’ve heard from others and your own past has proven that to be true. Her directions have gotten you this far, unscathed to the point of not having any scars. But what the driver fails to acknowledge and what the passenger knows, is that it doesn’t matter what road you’re driving on. It’s the journey that counts. It’s the power lines of friendship and the roadblocks of heartache and death that make the journey exciting, maddening, wondrous.
Despite the innate knowledge that she has, the passenger doesn’t speak up. She refuses to express her universal knowledge to the driver. So she sits back and continues to stare out her window. As another day goes by and the end of the road gets closer.